


Surrender

by finishusatoneblow



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, a bit angsty, this fucking ship, this ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finishusatoneblow/pseuds/finishusatoneblow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t know what he wants. He knows how Grantaire feels, but that’s almost common knowledge. The thing is, Enjolras, for once, surprised himself by initiating this at all….</p><p>"All of our reasoning ends in surrender to feeling"<br/>-Blaise Pascal</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jesus Christ. He didn’t know it was possible for someone to make him feel this way, constantly anxious, sick to his stomach, in an unabated state of anticipation and dread. And all from that one kiss. “I think you’re beautiful,” Grantaire had said. Simple as day. as if the nickname “Apollo” hadn’t already declared that thousands of times without Enjolras’ really even noticing. He felt like sort of an idiot, to be perfectly honest.

But above all, he was nervous. And it was exhausting. It was incessant terror. And Enjolras was fairly certain even Robespierre hadn’t had to face the likes of this.

He had felt anxiety before—in a time crunch, before giving a momentously important speech, when meeting with one of his idols or even occasionally while waiting for Combeferre to comment on his latest political proposal. But these were nothing compared to the constant black hole in his stomach that refused to be fed or disappear or be reasoned with no matter how many eloquent treatises he produces.  

He doesn’t know what he wants. He knows how Grantaire feels, but that’s almost common knowledge. The thing is, Enjolras, for once, surprised _himself_ by initiating this at all….

 

* * *

 

One night, months ago, at the Café Musain, he thought he could feel it beginning. He was speaking, the muse of justice scorching through him, giving him that surge of power and purpose that if he was honest, he got off on. As he was finishing, his vibrato reaching its soaring conclusion, he caught the eyes of a man he had rarely seen as engaged, amongst the wooden tables. He saw a light shining mistily in Grantaire’s eyes, reflecting the fire burning inside Enjolras. The others nodded, cheered, or drank in agreement as Enjolras concluded, but Grantaire was transfixed. Normally Enjolras saw the man’s eyes glazed over or rolling in his head as Grantaire sat hunched over a bottle in the corner. Granted, he had noticed Grantaire’s adoration before, in the looks he gave him, his sickeningly flattering words, that ridiculous nickname “Apollo.” He wasn’t _oblivious._ But he never knew he could inspire such passion in someone who took great care not to believe in anything, especially by talking politics.

For some reason, this time Enjolras was the one who couldn’t look away from Grantaire. The new luminosity that shone from the Grantaire’s irises and his slight absent-minded smirk were enticing, hell, even sexy. As Enjolras made a move to sit down, still focused on R, his eyes met Grantaire’s. A shiver ran through his body like an electric shock, which he tried to shake off. But despite his best efforts to ignore it, it settled his chest, before dropping to rest like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He broke the gaze and hurried to his seat, but the rock didn’t go away.

It wore down over time, but there it remained, a pebble that stirred inside him whenever he caught Grantaire staring at him from across the café or when their fingers touched in moments of clumsiness. And it was beginning to become a problem.

“Well if we don’t even _try_ , there certainly is no hope! Grantaire, you are a self-fulfilling prophecy! To achieve justice, we must _believe in it_!” They were in the midst of their latest heated argument about the effectiveness of les Amis’ tactics. As he punctuated the last three words, to nods and a “Here, here!” from Courfeyrac, he whipped his head around in frustration only to find his eyes directly meeting his combatant’s. He stopped dead, stumbling, as brilliant blue eyes met cloudy grey ones, solemnity and emotion apparent from behind the veil of cynicism, a realization that temporarily paralyzed him. For one terrifying second, his mind when blank, before he finally shook his hair out of his eyes, resuming a defiant glare and continuing his defense.

The slip-up in the normally flawless speaker’s tirade did not go unnoticed. He was on the receiving end of more than a couple concerned and meaningful looks when they left the Musain that night. But Enjolras was not going to let this pebble, this nuisance, this _nothing_ from getting in the way of Les Amis and the greater cause. He grew even shorter with Grantaire in the coming weeks, acting colder and suggesting his expulsion from meetings more often than usual. But he knew R must have seen the fear and (was it?) need in his eyes when they had locked eyes that night, each seemingly laid bare. As for the other Amis, they attributed Enjolras’ increased curtness to the stress that accompanied the kindling of a new campaign, yet again, and Enjolras breathed easy.

Or so he thought. Nights he would usually spend bent over his work were punctured by ethereal images of Grantaire, eyes ablaze or lips curling into a smirk, that floated in and out of his mind at their will, no regard for his other concerns. He found himself looking forward to weekly meetings at the Musain, not to discuss political strife as usual, but because of the promise of a scruffy, dark-haired man, breath thick with whiskey, hands stained with flecks of paint. But when another night ended, and the gang headed their separate ways, Enjolras had still never figured out how to do anything but either ignore or outwardly scorn Grantaire. The former left him hollow, the latter seething. At least an argument allowed for some interaction, the only way Enjolras could think to communicate with Grantaire these days. A particular nasty blow-up originated when Grantaire, slightly more drunk than usual, interrupted Enjolras in mid-sentence from his seat in the corner:

“As if anything you’re saying really _means_ anything. It’s all talk. Even if you manage to put this thing in motion, ‘snot going to change a damn thing. ’s a goddamn lie, all it is. And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. We all end up the same, might as well pull the stick out yer ass, Enjy”

Enjolras fumed. He could account for this rage, burning so white-hot inside him like his chest cavity had just turned into a roaring furnace. His words were like so many pokers at his disposal, ready to scald whenever he chose to flick them from the flames. This was beyond defense of justice, patria, freedom, loyalty, equality, all those words that usually set him afire. No, this was months worth of frustrations manifesting themselves in the only way he knew how: in that gaze that could scorch, and that tongue so sharp it could pierce.

“Perhaps you would be able to understand the meaning of these words if you weren’t drunk of _your_ arse every second of the goddamn day. And we will not end up the same.” He gesture wildly to the others around them. “We try and we strive and we _will_ change the world, and you?!” He was yelling. “You’re a fucking useless coward. Now leave.” His voice rapidly turned dead and cold.

R had turned his face away as though slapped, leaving his expression invisible to Enjolras. His posture communicated nothing. “I don’t have to take this shit,” he mumbled, knocking a bottle to the floor as he sidled towards the exit. No one was sure if it was on purpose or not.  No one heard him mutter “You will see” on his way out either.

They didn’t speak again until it happened.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras’ head swam with the smell of whisky and cigarettes and turpentine. Nothing seemed to make sense. The only way Enjolras could make sense of it was by taking Grantaire by the mouth and kissing him until the swimming stopped.

Grantaire hadn’t been coming to meetings. Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly had seen him, so he hadn’t fallen from the face of the earth (or more likely, gone on some kind of reckless binge and ended up in a gutter somewhere.)

What had happened was plaguing Enjolras, not so much because of what he had said, but because Grantaire hadn’t been showing up. _He knew that would bother me more than anything_ , he thought bitterly, pausing briefly to examine why it did. Enjolras believed what he had said. Grantaire’s inaction angered him. His drinking, his complaining, his disbelief. But, though they were true, Enjolras was regretting his words for the first time since he could remember. If R was avoiding meetings not to spite Enjolras but because he had been bruised by Enjolras’ words… 

As a man of action, Enjolras resolved to make things right. He needed Grantaire. No, _they_ needed Grantaire. The cause needed every man it could get.

He pulled on a coat over his red flannel, and walked the blocks to Grantaire’s one-room studio apartment. He was sure the drunk would be there, brooding. He had to remind himself of the right attitude, remember that words could hurt, and that that was the reason he was here at all. _Was it?_

He was up the stairs and at Grantaire’s door before he realized it, and suddenly, he felt shy. He wanted to turn around, retreat home. But damnit, he was here, and he had been thinking about doing this for two weeks. He knocked twice, curtly.

The clatter of paintbrushes against aluminum greeted him, shortly followed by a voice roughly yelping “Hang on!- fuck,” and the unmistakable bang of R-toe against wood. The door opened, revealing the cluttered room, its occupant hidden. Grantaire’s head popped up from below as he let go of the stubbed toe he had been clutching with his right hand.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire’s eyes were wide and bewildered. He scanned the apartment nervously: the opened paint cans, the dirty white sheet covering most of the floor, the tables littered with brushes, old cigarette butts, unread newspapers and half empty beer bottles, the large canvas propped against the side wall. “err… come in?”

“Um, thanks,” Enjolras stepped inside, taking in the commotion that was Grantaire’s studio. It was disorganized but somehow still pragmatic, a mess, but beautiful. It was so Grantaire. The canvas dominating the room bore a half-finished abstract in thick red paint. “I just came to, well… You haven’t been at meetings.” He wanted to avoid making this personal. “And I wanted to apologize for what I said, you know, the other night.”

Grantaire gestured for Enjolras to sit on a sadly neglected loveseat as R dragged a chair over to face him. He sat, placing his elbows on his knees, and stared directly at Enjolras.

“Really? You serious?” Grantaire addressed him with queasy skepticism.

“Yes, it shouldn’t have gotten personal like that.”

Grantaire’s face relaxed, but his eyes clouded, seeming more distant. He scratched his head with those hands, rough, strong, speckled with paint. “To be honest, I was a bit more plastered than usual, and you know I say those things to get you all riled up” His eyes sparkled with dalliance, but something told Enjolras it wasn’t genuine. There hadn’t been any mirth in Grantaire’s objection the other night, only hopelessness.

“So you want me back at the meetings, eh?”

Enjolras shifted his eyes down to the floor. His stomach was in knots. He wished he hadn’t come. “Every member of the ABC is irreplaceable, necessary if we want to achieve our goals,” he said, more softly than was fitting. He looked up tentatively to see a listless expression on R’s face. The two locked eyes, Enjolras’ nearly bursting with the fullness of what he wanted to say, Grantaire’s equal in their emptiness.

“Yes. I want you back at the meetings.”

The tension was palpable.

“Useless coward that I am?” Enjolras heard his words returned to him with another pang of regret. “It’s true, you said it yourself,” Grantaire said simply.

“I said I wanted to apologize.”

“Yes, you _wanted_ to. Congratulations.”

“Grantaire, I came here—“

“Why?”

Enjolras just stared.

“I said, why?” Grantaire repeated.

“Because… fuck.” Enjolras slammed a hand down on the arm of the loveseat, unable to control himself anymore, in this moment, being asked this question, the one he didn’t know how to answer, the one he couldn’t answer. He hated this. He hated being unsure. He hated Grantaire a little for causing this, for his chiding and smirking and his eyes and strong hands and laughter that shook his shoulders and his _stupid_  beautiful electric gaze. He exhaled unsteadily, and with the next breath, came both overwhelming confusion and clarity. 

He was only aware of his own hands, the nerve endings in his fingertips like flint making sparks against the air, full as it was of unspoken fervor. He reached across the space between them, guided by some strange intuition that drew him like a magnet to Grantaire’s skin. He cupped Grantaire’s face in his hands, reveling in the softness of his skin just beneath the prickle of unshaven scruff. R’s eyes widened with shock, pin pricks of light growing in their centers as he stared directly into the sun.

Enjolras’ head swam with the smell of whisky and cigarettes and turpentine. Nothing seemed to make sense. The only way Enjolras could make sense of it was by taking Grantaire by the mouth and kissing him until the swimming stopped.

Enjolras leaned forward, determined, but not imperious. “Do you permit it?” he murmured, and Grantaire’s eyelids fluttered. Without waiting for an answer, Enjolras closed the space between them cautiously, slowly, but firmly. He placed his lips on Grantaire’s, and he should have self-consciously noticed that his were far too dry and dammit he didn’t have time for lip balm… but he didn’t. The aching in the pit of his stomach that had be paining him since their fight was suddenly soothed, as Grantaire, who at first appeared to be the victim of shock, once more became electric. R responded to his soft touch, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’ back, drawing him in, moving his lips wantonly against Enjolras’. Enjolras was overcome.

And he never wanted it to stop. His mind, his body, his heart, all fell into place, like stars aligning (oh lord, kill him now). Not the way Jehan would have them align, a mystical constellation of sparkling sublimity. But like they had each hurtled through the cosmos, until now perpetually chaotic, to settle in exactly that place, where they were supposed to be. He could finally relax; he could give in. And it didn’t seem to matter so much that he couldn’t imagine everything with dazzling perfection, because for once, everything didn’t need to be perfect. It was enough for it to just be right. Enjolras had never been more certain of anything in his entire life. He had never felt more at home in his own skin. These bones and flesh were his to give, for once. No revolution begging for them, no otherworldly orator inhabiting them, no weight of justice bearing down upon them day and night.

So he gave them. His bones and flesh, hot skin and teeth, lips red and mangled from subconscious biting in his hours of deepest concentration. He challenged Grantaire’s command, his hands fisting in Grantaire’s hair, forcing their contact, ensuring that it wouldn’t, it couldn’t stop. Teeth bashed together, further dizzying his brain, but Enjolras wasn’t ready to give up this feeling. Not yet. Not after weeks of hunger that he hadn’t even realized was so voracious until he got a taste of what some part of him had wanted all along. Then Grantaire was humming against his lips, trying to get something out. They broke apart.

“Jesus, Apollo,” Grantaire gasped. And Enjolras felt his chest clench. He swallowed, unaccustomed to the breathlessness and presence of saliva that was not his own (and oh god, who knew where that mouth had been?). His heart beat an unrelenting tattoo against his ribcage. His lungs were caving in inside him. Oh God. What had he done? What did this mean? How could he be so stupid?

And why did it have to stop?

The two men stared at each other. Now Enjolras was the one wide-eyed. Breathing fast, he implored R with his gaze and infuriatingly, R seemed to grow more relaxed as Enjolras’ panic set in. “I think you’re beautiful,” he murmured. Grantaire’s face closed in on Enjolras and their lips met again. Grantaire guided Enjolras out of his seat, pulling him forward with his arms, a hand caressing the small of Enjolras’ back. Then Enjolras was in Grantaire’s lap, and every flint-like nerve had caught fire. He clutched at the soft curls of Grantaire’s hair and nibbled at his impossibly soft bottom lip and relished the scratch of Grantaire’s stubble on his face, and he felt… was that? Grantaire’s erection next to his thigh. Grantaire moaned lightly into their mouths as the two continued to wrestle with hands, lips, limbs, and chests in a frenzied game of give and take. Enjolras needed this, he needed more. He moved his hands to Grantaire’s back, pulling him closer, feeling the muscle beneath his thin shirt. Their lips fell apart as Enjolras, desperate for contact, pressed Grantaire flush against his chest. Grantaire made up for the loss in spades, sucking, kissing, and biting along his Apollo’s neck, until Enjolras threw his head back in pure surrender. _Surrender_ : a word that had never once before been associated with Enjolras.  

“Wait.” He tried to command, through the tremor in his voice. “Stop.” He almost whimpered.

Grantaire acquiesced.

“I have to go, I-I, oh fuck, Grantaire, really-” And muttering to himself, he wrenched himself from Grantaire’s lap, ran from the studio, down the stairwell, and into the street.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about "Do you permit it?" I had to ;)  
> I'm really sorry it's been so much longer than I anticipated since Chapter 1 but I had major writers block about how to get into this scene and I started writing a whole bunch of scenes after this, so it should pick up from now on! Get ready for some good Combeferre stuff coming up...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What’s got to you?”
> 
> “Grantaire, there’s absolutely nothing. Now go away.” He continued to survey his paper with feigned interest.
> 
> Well that answered Combeferre’s question.

So here he was, not knowing what to do, what he wanted, why this had happened and why it was so damn important. He dreaded seeing R again, not because he didn’t want to, because _God_ he wanted to. He wanted to feel those strong arms as they wrapped around him, seize those tender lips with his own. But the anxiety, the fear associated with wondering how Grantaire would act…. How he himself would act. That was unthinkable.

He shifted in his chair, resting his elbows on his desk, taking his head gingerly in his hands, as if it might break open at the touch.

The two of them together had been… explosive—erotic even— but that intensity scared Enjolras when it came from somewhere so utterly _human_. He wasn’t used to it. That kind of energy was supposed to come from outside of himself, somewhere where the cause and patria were real, where his ideas were tangible and explosive to the touch. It existed as fire, egging him on when he spoke, striking an inferno that blazed through him before returning to where it really belonged: _outside_.

But this? This was entirely different. It started as smoldering, like hot coals inside his stomach. In those moments in Grantaire’s apartment, it had grown warmer, hotter, uncomfortably so. Then, all at once, he had gone up in flames. But they didn’t rage through him like that otherworldly wildfire. They consumed him, because they came from inside him. He couldn’t deny that.

They all saw him as the chief, the fearless leader, the wild, furious sun. This new feeling was fiery, yes. But it was not at his disposal. He couldn’t control it.

But he had to. For the sake of Les Amis, for the cause, for the future. And for his old self. Maybe he could force this new feeling to go away.

He breathed deeply, turning to face his bedroom window, letting his eyes blur the lights below. He ran a hand through his hair and was reminded with a shiver of when someone else’s fingers were tangled in it.

The feeling would not go away. The thought angered him, and he yanked at fistfuls of that damned hair, as though he could torture answers out of them.

Did he have feelings for Grantaire? He didn’t know. All he knew was that for those moments they had been together physically, everything had made sense, by instinct. _That_ was what he wanted. The rest of it? The rock sitting in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach swelled to the size of a boulder. He stood from his chair to throw the window open, as if these thoughts could somehow scamper out and follow the sound of ambulance sirens into some abstract reality that he didn’t have to deal with just now.

 

* * *

 

It was morning.

Enjolras sat reclined on the blue upholstered couch in their small living room, clutching the Opinion section of the Huffington Post in his left hand, his right wrapped tightly around a steaming cup of black coffee, thumb fiddling with the handle absently. He was completely engrossed in a particularly biting commentary on the upper-middle class when he heard a soft little cough that reached his brain somewhere between the smell of his coffee and the word “hegemony.” He snapped his head up from where it was buried in the folds of page B-3 and saw Combeferre’s long, limber form emerge from the hallway, resting against the doorframe with rehearsed ease.

“Good morning, Combeferre,” Enjolras chirped in a way he hoped sounded casual, quickly regarding a sleepy Combeferre over his cup, taking a sip before reverting his gaze to the newsprint and pretending that his oldest friend hadn’t broken his early-Saturday-morning reverie.

Combeferre’s presence brought with it a wave of worldly concerns more intimate than Enjolras was used to. Usually these concerns were thoughts and philosophies and plans, their latest causes, their school work, promises late nights in the library or long days at the Musain, noses to the paper. Above all, they meant companionship and camaraderie. Someone who understood, who valued what he valued, and could handle him, neuroses and all.

Now he felt something in Combeferre’s stare boring into his skull that he could tell had nothing to do with their usual dynamic. The atmosphere was thick and Enjolras could tell that his flatmate’s hazel eyes had stayed fixed on the back of his head.

“Enjolras—” Combeferre began at little below normal volume, “did you even sleep last night?”  

“What does that matter, when I’m perfectly fine?” said Enjolras, tilting his chin towards the paper a little haughtily and pretending to scan the article shrewdly. “I’m clearly not in immediate danger of the stroke Joly is always threatening. I’m here calmly reading my paper like any normal human being.”

Combeferre sighed. As a man of few words, it was hard for him to say what needed to be said. “Enjolras. I live with you. And I know you. I _have_ known you for ten years. And I know that when you get stressed, you don’t sleep. But there’s nothing coming up. We wrapped up the police brutality thing and exams aren’t for ages. This… worries me. What’s got to you?”

“Grantaire, there’s absolutely nothing. Now go away.” He continued to survey his paper with feigned interest.

Well that answered Combeferre’s question. His eyebrows shot up until they were near invisible under his unkempt hair. This wasn’t a total shock to Combeferre. Enjolras had a soft spot for the cynic that had been growing more and more visible until before the fight. But if this was the cause of Enjolras’ odd behavior over the past week, that was certainly jarring.

He had been jumpy, distracted, growing visibly more haggard as the days wore on. Though it was impossible to tell, Combeferre hadn’t seen evidence that Enjolras had slept in his room all week. He must have slept for a couple of hours, bent over the hard wood of the coffee table or passed out on the couch, but he was always up before Combeferre or insisting that he would go to bed eventually when his friend couldn’t take the late-night stalemate anymore and retired to his own room.

Last night, Enjolras _had_ gone into his room under the pretenses of sleep. But when Combeferre returned from a usual Friday night at the Musain with some of the other Amis, he could hear Enjolras’ pacing, had heard the late-night sounds of the city flowing in from his open window, seen the oily yellow light from his desk lamp under the door crack. Combeferre had wondered what could be occupying his friend’s mind. The voice telling him it just might be the conflict with Grantaire had cleared its throat, and he had resolved to find out the truth when he was a little more… lucid, in the morning.

Enjolras’ slip conveyed a lot more than annoyance. Had Grantaire really been the thing occupying his mind these past few days? What kept him from sleep, from his friends, from himself?

There were stranger explanations.

Combeferre replayed what he knew of the scenario in his mind. The fight: worse than ever before, overcharged with fury and passion. The aftermath: Enjolras brooding and stubborn, Grantaire absent. Enjolras seemed to recover easily, returning to the cause, almost fiercely indifferent. They hadn’t spoken since that night, as far as he knew. So why would Enjolras be affected by it now? And why had the cause of his consternation only revealed itself in a Freudian slip?

There _was_ one thing Enjolras didn’t like to talk about. Had his soft spot grown into something more? Again, there were stranger explanations. 

Combeferre recovered neutrality to his expression after processing this information.  He walked carefully over to the couch and perched on the edge, facing Enjolras, his posture open, unthreatening.

He then promptly tore the paper from Enjolras’ fingers. Enjolras furrowed his brow, but his cheeks were undeniably flushed as he tried to snatch the paper back, anxious to hide behind it once more.

“You do realize what you just said, right?” Combeferre already knew the answer.

“Uhm… yes, I… little slip there, you know, hard to avoid when you’re being as annoying as…”

The eyebrows rose again. Enjolras was pretty sure they would disappear completely from Combeferre’s head before this conversation was done with, though he sincerely hoped not, least of all because his friend would look utterly ridiculous with no eyebrows.

“High praise indeed,” Combeferre replied. _Shit._ He expected Enjolras to pierce him with eyes and words like daggers. What he got instead was Enjolras averting his gaze, clearing his throat rather loudly, and looking like he would rather be anywhere but on this couch at the moment.

Combeferre took a breath. _Right, time to change tactics._

“Hey,” he said gently, guiding Enjolras to face him with a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about—“

“ _What_ isn’t exactly?” Ah, there it was. The usual anger. Expected. Charted territory. It gave Combeferre courage.

“I’m not _exactly_ sure, which is why I asked you in the first place, didn’t I? But I’m pretty confident ‘it’ is something to do with some more-than-friendly feelings between you and Grantaire.”

Enjolras blushed furiously. “Combeferre. _Please_. This is ludicrous.”

Combeferre opened his mouth to retaliate but Enjolras was quicker: “You know what this is? It’s madness. It’s ridiculous, nonsensical, utter _insanity_.” His voice broke halfway through the outburst. He looked anywhere except the figure on the other side of that damn couch. “And I _don’t_ want to talk about it.” He brought a hand to his head, fingers knotting in his blond curls, palm pressing against his left temple.

Combeferre took the hand in his forcefully, but his voice was gentle when he spoke: “Listen. Whatever this is you’re struggling with, you have to get it off your chest, or you’re going to hit your breaking point. And before long, you’re going to have to get back to the cause. You have to talk to people. You have to eat real meals. You have to sleep. And if thinking about… this… is keeping you from that, it’s my job, as your friend. To help you. Now talk.”

Enjolras breathed a deep, rattling breath. Combeferre squeezed his hand. When Enjolras finally met his oldest friend’s eyes, they were full of emotion. They betrayed everything. There was no going back now.

“’Ferre, it’s been going on for a while now. The… I mean, I realized, that I felt… anyway, this isn’t _so_ new. But, ‘Ferre, something happened. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to face it… I don’t want it to change everything, but… I can’t…” _Think about anything else? Get him out of my head? Stop picturing us, chest to chest, his breath in my mouth, his hands in my hair?_ “…let it go.”

Combeferre looked at him expectantly.

“The other day. I went over to Grantaire’s. I wanted to make up. This whole thing was… oh, fuck it, we kissed, okay?”

He rubbed both palms hard against his eye sockets, withdrawing from Combeferre’s grip. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He didn’t want to see it. The shock, the shattered expectations, the loss of respect.

Combeferre said nothing.

Enjolras felt shame bubbling in his chest, hot anger rising to the surface like steam, promising to cover his doubt and fear. Quickly removing his hands from his eyes, wiping them roughly on his jeans, he stood and stalked towards the empty silence of his bedroom. Anything but the oppressive tension in the living room. Combeferre’s voice floated after him, infuriatingly soft. “This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Enjolras.”

He nodded, feeling Combeferre’s eyes on the back of his head for the second time that morning. All peace gone from his Saturday, he walked into his room and shut the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter in time for June 5.  
> Combeferre and Enjolras, my brotp.  
> I just realized I've ended every chapter so far with someone walking out of somewhere in a tizzy. I'll try to break that trend in future.  
> Enjoy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No one can know. Do you understand?” 
> 
> Enjolras decides the best way to deal with his confusing feelings for Grantaire is to have somewhat of a sexual awakening (unfortunately, with no actual sex)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, I've decided to change the name of this fic because I thought "Orestes Drunk" was trite and I think the new title better demonstrates the story that I am trying to tell. Note the quote in the summary: "All reasoning ends in surrender to feeling"  
> Carry on!

A calloused but liberal hand was stroking him gently, fingers teasing, extracting lust with every touch. He moaned, savoring the feeling of flesh on flesh, driving his hips upward into the touch. “Give in, Orestes” a voice said, calm, but insistent. It was smooth, familiar.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras gasped, as his eyes sprang open, consciousness hitting him full in the face, along with the realization that he had been stroking himself in his sleep.

He groaned in exasperation rather than pleasure, bringing his hand up to massage his temples. The sheets were impossibly tangled around him, and his neck was uncomfortably wet with sweat. He tried to wriggle free, but this proved problematic in his state of arousal. His cock twitched with anticipation at his movements, and the memory of his dream was still fresh. Enjolras surrendered. But his own hand felt too familiar in the clarity of the morning and he finished himself quickly and without ceremony.

He suspected why these desires had enveloped him. There was a meeting tonight.

Grantaire had made no promise. There was no use pretending that their encounter hadn’t raised more questions than it answered. Enjolras did not know if Grantaire would bother showing up to the meeting. He hoped he would.

Enjolras had fallen into normal patterns of sleep and personal care if only to appease Combeferre, who, in turn, hadn’t mentioned their conversation since. Enjolras now knew that his feelings regarding Grantaire would be unacceptable in the face of the cause, in the face of his friends. He refused to let shame and dread consume him again, and if he needed a physical outlet, so be it.

As he stepped into the shower, letting the hot water flow into rivets along the contours of his body, he couldn’t help but picture Grantaire waiting for him at the Musain, ink staining those hands, hair wild, looking up from where he sat, half-sprawled across the table in the corner, eyes gleaming with anticipation. But then… he had already indulged once today. Enjolras scrubbed his leg a little harder than necessary before promptly exiting the shower and getting on with his day, for god’s sake.

* * *

 

The café was overly warm from the gaseous heat of the furnace, and snow was falling lightly outside the frosty windows. Enjolras was alone, early as usual, sifting through papers, reviewing the agenda in his mind, and trying to steady his damn hands. There was nothing to anticipate. He could not reasonably expect anything, not from Grantaire. But he had to know.

Enjolras watched his friends trickle in, wrapped in scarves, coats pulled tight around them, laughing and smiling, eyes bright with the excitement at the snow. It pleased him on a fundamental level to see them simply happy. Joly and Prouvaire were chatting amicably at a nearby table, Bahorel was already pouring drinks, promising a toast to the first snow of the season, and Courfeyrac was still removing his coat, shaking snow-speckled hair out of his eyes and nodding animatedly to Enjolras from across the room.

He felt Combeferre’s presence next to him before he saw his friend over his shoulder, craning his neck to see the papers in Enjolras’ hands. Enjolras was sure Combeferre could see him shaking, and only kept silent out of politeness. Enjolras looked away pointedly, but his subsequent inspection of the room only aggravated the knot in his stomach. Grantaire was still not there.

“Would you mind, um, looking these over? I have to get some air, I’ll be right back, just- uh, let me know when everyone gets here,” Enjolras said, his jaw clenched. He hurried out the door without bothering to put on his coat, rounded the corner of the building, and leaned back against the cold brick as soon as he was out of sight. He squeezed his eyes shut, only for a moment, to try to compose himself, to go to the abstract, the ideal. Where things weren’t so messy and urgent and _physical_.  

Someone tapped his shoulder. He let out a groan of disapproval. Combeferre could wait five seconds.

“Hey,” that smooth, familiar, distinctly-not-Combeferre voice said. “Hey, are you okay?” The fingers jabbed his shoulder, jostling him slightly.

“Mm.” Enjolras hummed as dismissively as he could manage. He knew he would lose his head as soon as he opened his eyes. But the smell of smoke and turpentine was already seeping in, cracking his composure. Enjolras opened his eyes, slowly and reluctantly, to find Grantaire standing less than an arm’s length away, peering at him with a strange combination of curiosity, worry, and ardor.

“Enjolras, what’s going on? If you want to forget—”

Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s wrist roughly, squeezing tightly as he drew Grantaire to him. He was done with thinking. If this was what it took, this physicality, to restore him to his right mind, so be it. It was no different than this morning, in his bed.

But it was _so_ different. “Mmphhh!” Grantaire grunted in surprise as Enjolras pressed their lips together violently, moving his hands to clutch Grantaire’s shoulders roughly, holding him in place. Grantaire struggled for a moment in surprise against Enjolras’ hands, but quickly gave in as if to say “Who am I to refuse?” His hands curled tightly around Enjolras’ forearms, the pads of his fingers pressing into the skin beneath, the bones of his straining fingers visible.

Enjolras drank Grantaire in, his tongue penetrating Grantaire’s mouth almost obscenely as he roughly manhandled him, pressing their bodies together, tilting his hips away from the wall to affix to Grantaire’s.

Enjolras had no thoughts but the feeling of Grantaire’s body against him in that moment. He pulled out of the kiss to lick across Grantaire’s jaw before sucking at his ear. “Thank you for coming,” Enjolras whispered as he nipped at Grantaire’s earlobe.

He slid his hands down to Grantaire’s sides. Grantaire’s arms sprung up to wrap around his back, but Enjolras shook his head against Grantaire’s neck, taking Grantaire’s hands and resting them on his own hips. Grantaire inhaled audibly, giving Enjolras the opportunity to capture his mouth again. He left his hands on top of Grantaire’s, guiding those gorgeous fingers into caresses along his hips. When he felt that Grantaire had received the message, Enjolras moved his hands to the back of Grantaire’s neck, deepening their kiss desperately.

 Grantaire was long past protesting. He gripped Enjolras’ hips with certainty now, tethering their bodies together below as Enjolras tethered them above.  He tentatively rolled his hips forward against Enjolras, who threaded his fingers through the hair at Grantaire’s neck enthusiastically, his mouth slackening slightly against Grantaire’s. They kissed a moment more, sloppily, deeply as ever, before Enjolras’ hands returned to their controlling grip on Grantaire’s shoulders, and he moved Grantaire away.

Enjolras’ smoldered behind a film of smokiness. He could hardly believe the feeling he had experienced: completely fulfilling, absolutely tantalizing and provocative but simultaneously completely satisfying. It shut down those parts of his brain screaming for closeness to this strange man who stood before him, still confused, still adoring, now ruffled and flushed. His ears were bright red, from the cold, but his face glowed, for another reason entirely.

 Enjolras’ lips turned upwards in an uncontainable smirk, eyes staring straight into Grantaire’s. He still held Grantaire’s shoulders. He leaned forward, to whisper,  “No one can know. Do you understand?”

Grantaire only stared, still shell-shocked. Slowly, he nodded. His mouth fell open slightly, the left corner of his mouth pulling upwards, mimicking Enjolras’ smirk. Enjolras, still smiling, nodded, gently moving Grantaire aside and walking past him back into the Musain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a thousand years since I've updated- so sorry.  
> But we're back with a vengeance.  
> Enjolras is really excited about the smallest sexual encounters.  
> Sorry if this is OOC I tried to make this kind of sexy-times behavior seem as atypical for Enjolras as I could. He's overcome by his feelings and unable to express them any other way because of his dedication to the cause, okay?  
> I hope you enjoy and I'll try really hard to update more regularly now.  
> Also the next chapter should be set directly after this action, unlike usual when all of a sudden it's like a week later. Yay continuity!


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